


Baby Mine

by resonae



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Babysitting (sort of), Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resonae/pseuds/resonae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint gets a face full of alien ooze, turning him into a tiny two year old. The Avengers may be enjoying this change a little too much. Basically a pot full of honey-fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For Anon's prompt, 
> 
> Will you ever do kid!fic? With bb!Clint? :D

i. Tony Stark

 

Tony knew he shouldn’t, that he really, really should not be, but he couldn’t help it. It was just too goddamned cute. So he laughed, and the subject of his laughter turned, eyes set in daggers. “This is just too precious.” Tony squatted next to where Bruce was examining the little toddler currently swamped in one of Tony’s old shirts. “How old do you think he is?”

 

“Two, maybe three.” Bruce said, pulling his stethoscope down. “As far as I can tell, all of his functions are working correctly. He’s just… de-aged.”

 

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “So you think it was that alien ooze? But it got on all of us, and the rest of us are fine.”

 

Bruce shook his head. “It was definitely the alien ooze. And it didn’t get on all of us. For you, Tony and Natasha, it got on your suits. For me, well… It got on the Hulk, and I don’t think it affected him in any way. And Thor is a god. For all we know, he _could_ have de-aged as much as Clint has, it’s just that it made no difference as to how he looks.”

 

“You guys don’t have to talk like I’m not here, you know.” Clint said, crossing his arms across his chest. When he was larger, older, the movement was petulant enough, but Clint had always managed to make it just look annoyed instead of petulant. But now, as a toddler swamped in a shirt that was falling off of one shoulder and hanging precariously on the other, it just looked, well, adorable. “How come my brain hasn’t gone back in time with the rest of my body?”

 

Bruce hummed. “It must be because memories and knowledge are electric waves in your brain. A lot more difficult to get rid of pulses that are always flashing on and off. That’s a guess, though.”

 

Clint nodded. “Pretty sound one. How long do you figure I have in this body?”

 

“Sorry, Clint. I really have no idea.”

 

Natasha grinned sadistically from where she was standing behind Clint. “Well, then. Might as well get you some new clothes, huh?”

 

Clint looked scandalized.

 

\--

 

And of course Tony was not going to miss this, because how effing could he? He didn’t even care that the press would be all over him, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts shopping for baby clothes together, a blonde toddler in their arms. He could see the internet already. _Blonde! But neither Tony nor Pepper are blonde! Could this be an adopted child?_  

 

Clint, for his part, was sulking. He wasn’t struggling or anything in Tony’s arms, but he was frowning and pouting and downright sulking. It didn’t help that every store they went to, every employee cooed at Clint as if he was a real toddler. So Clint kept sulking, his tiny fists squeezing tennis ball-sized wrinkles into one of his best suits, the one Pepper insisted he wear when he was out in public with her.

 

Honestly he couldn’t bring himself to mind, because he’d said it before, but Clint was so goddamned cute. “You know,” he said, grinning down at Clint, who sulked down at the buttons of his three-piece suit, “you can try giggling and smiling for the cameras.”

 

“Oh, _god_ , there’s going to be physical evidence of this?” Clint groaned, burying his face into Tony’s shoulder. He was dressed in a dark blue hoodie that was a little loose for him, along with beige pants, and he looked like one of those baby models that came right out of a catalog, which was probably what Pepper had been aiming for. Tony had originally wanted to buy clothes that were the usual he’d seen – a sweater vest pulled over a button up, with jeans. But Pepper had pointed out Clint had never liked restrictive clothing as an adult, so there was no way that Clint was going to like that now.

 

And she’d been right. The moment Tony had pulled out a sweater vest, Clint had stared like it held all the horrors in the world. So Pepper had very tactfully displayed the navy hoodie, along with the beige pants. Tony didn’t think the clothes were too special – despite the fact that they cost probably more than all of Clint’s previous wardrobe put together – and so it must have been Clint that was pulling off the model-baby look.

 

Clint was, in all honesty, an incredibly gorgeous toddler. Tony could have predicted that, since Clint was an incredibly gorgeous man, but added on with the pale skin yet unmarred by the sun, pale blonde hair and tri-colored eyes that were as big as saucers, Clint looks like a baby that has been heavily photoshopped and brushed over right from a baby catalog.

 

“If we met when you were this little,” Tony said, a little dazed, “I think I would have adopted you.”

 

“Tony, I’m going to remind you that you’re not that much older than me.” Clint rolled his eyes. “But yeah, I was a pretty cute baby. I remember walking down the street, holding onto my mama’s hand, and people would always comment. I mean, that was before my mama stopped taking me out anywhere because pretty soon I got too many bruises and cuts from my pop’s drinking, you know?”

 

Tony winced. Right. Alcoholic father. “I would have taken good care of you, if you were my son.”

 

Clint sighed and nodded against Tony’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know.” His head nodded almost comically, and the seriousness of the mood lifted as another burst of affection burst through Tony at the sight. “Damn it.” Clint pouted, rubbing at his eyes with tiny fists. “All this body wants to do is go to fucking sleep.”

 

The profanity spilling from baby-pink lips was almost hilarious, but Tony swallowed the laugh and patted Clint’s back. “Yeah, go ahead and sleep. Looks like Pepper’s going to be at it for a while.” Clint grumbled something against Tony’s shoulder, but soon Tony felt the steady rise and fall of the body underneath his palm.

 

Normally, he would have been bored out of his mind accompanying Pepper on one of her shopping sprees, but today he was fascinated. Clint was warm against his neck, the way toddlers always were, and he had begun to suckle on his thumb. Muscle memory, Tony guessed, amused to the fullest. He had to get a picture of this somehow. He fussed with his phone for a bit, but the movement made Clint mumble and stir, so he froze until Clint settled against his shoulder again. Tony managed to snap a picture of baby-Clint, thumb sucking and all.

 

“He’s going to hate you for that.” Pepper sang, two more bags of baby clothes at her arms. “I think I’m good for now.”

 

“You don’t even know how long he’s going to stay like this.”

 

Pepper pulled a face. “True, but he’s so adorable. And at least this way, the next time something like this happens, we’ll be prepared.”

 

Tony snorted. “I think it’s a scary thought that turning into a two year old is not the scariest thing that could happen to us.”

 

Pepper only chuckled as she swept up the other bags and handed them for some staff to be delivered back to the Stark Tower. “So it’s settled, then? He’s two?”

 

“Bruce says he’s closer to two than three. Should be just over 24 months old. It’s not that hard to pinpoint a pretty close range, since when you’re this small your body changes pretty drastically over a short time.”

 

“He’s pretty cute.” She leaned over and put her hand on Clint’s cheek. “Aw, look at that, he’s sucking his thumb.”

 

“He’s the most fucking adorable thing I’ve ever seen, and that seal thing you showed me last month was pretty damned cute.” Pepper didn’t bother hiding her grin, and Tony knew a similar one was spread out on his own face.

 

\--

 

“Well, would you look at that.” Bruce chuckled as Tony walked into the common area of the tower. “Here, thought you might want to see this.” Tony one-handedly caught the paper slid at him, shifting Clint into his dominant arm expertly. A photo of him and Pepper, with Clint in his arms and sleeping soundly, graced the front cover of the New York Post.

 

Tony rolled his eyes and shifted Clint’s weight again so he was holding him with both arms. “They really have nothing better to do. He’s been sleeping all this time, is this normal?”

 

“He’s a toddler, Tony. All they do is eat and play and sleep. He’ll be fine, but he can’t sleep in that huge bed of his anymore. He’ll tangle himself in the sheets. Maybe suffocate himself in it.”

 

“So of course you thought of a solution.” Tony grinned, and Bruce grinned back a little tentatively, as if he knew Tony was not going to like the answer. Tony sighed. “What is it?”

 

Bruce smiled apologetically. “Well, I built him a smaller bed, which was easy enough to do, but he can’t sleep by himself, or with either of us, or Thor or Natasha.” When Tony scowled, Bruce hurried to explain. “Tony, you and I work late at night, and sometimes with materials that may not do so much damage to adults, but have frightening effects on children, especially ones as young as Clint is right now. He can’t sleep with Thor because, well, Thor snores like a freight train and sleeps through everything. If Clint wakes Natasha up in the middle of the night, she may react violently.”

 

“So he has to sleep with Steve.”

 

Tony turned a head toward the super soldier, who looked a little too proud as he reached out for the sleeping toddler in Tony’s arms. Tony had half a mind to run away to his room and lock himself in there, but he knew Bruce was right – he played with too many dangerous chemicals for a toddler, albeit one with a mature mind, could live safely. Still he grumbled as he slid Clint into Steve’s arms, and took immense satisfaction in the way Clint fretted in the new arms until he woke up blearily.

 

ii. Steve Rogers

 

Steve could tell why Tony was so infatuated with baby-Clint the moment Clint rubbed his eyes as he woke up. “Oh, hell no.” Clint muttered, and Steve laughed. “Was I really sucking my thumb?”

 

“Yeah.” Steve carries Clint easily in one arm – one _hand_ , even – as he walks into his room. “Bruce made you a new bed, and you’re gonna be sleeping in here.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes. “So you can take me to the bathroom if I gotta piss or something like that?”

 

“Hearing a toddler talk like this really is bizarre, but yes, for things like that.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes again in reply and tugged at Steve’s arms. “I want down.” Steve put him down gently, squatting so he was as close to the floor as he could be. Clint walked precariously on his two feet and then gave a short cry and reached up to snag Steve’s pants. Steve tried not to think about how Clint barely reached his knees. “God, this is embarrassing.”

 

“I’ll pick you up again?” Steve suggested, and Clint mulled over it for about three seconds before reaching his tiny arms upward. Steve grasped him gently around the waist and lifted him up easily. “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s just that your muscles de-aged. Bruce whittled your age down to just over 24 months, meaning you can’t have been walking long.”

 

Clint sighed but rested his head on Steve’s chest. “It’s also sort of humiliating you can pick me up with a hand.”

 

“Relax, Clint. Bruce said you’re on the thin side when it comes to babies your age.” Clint groaned at the word ‘babies’ and Steve smiled. “Learn to enjoy it. From what I could tell, Tony’s going to be pampering you until you grow back. Just think of it as a nice break. You’re pretty cute, you know.”

 

Clint grumbled against Steve’s heart, which was quite frankly too endearing. “I’m tired again.” Clint announced, and Steve smiled. “I slept the entire fucking day and I’m tired already. How is this possible?”

 

“Let’s just get you changed into your pajamas. Miss Potts gave me this bag.”

 

“Why the _hell_ is it sunflower yellow?!”

 

\--

 

It turned out the pajamas were not sunflower yellow – they were more of the baby chick yellow. Steve couldn’t help but grin like a proud parent as he tugged the large yellow hooded shirt down over Clint’s constantly cursing lips. As he did, the hood caught on Clint’s head and stayed over it while the rest of it went down.

 

Clint glared murder at him, but Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “Where did Pepper even find this?” Clint’s pajamas – they weren’t quite pajamas, Steve thought, since it was just one big shirt – were a bright yellow. It was a long, short-sleeved shirt, with two black-outlined wings drawn in the back. The hood had a small, red-felt beak at the edge, along with two black dots for eyes. Complete with the androgynous looks a toddler usually had, Clint looked like a baby girl. Which was, if Steve thought about it, the effect Pepper might have been aiming for. “Clint, please let me take a picture. You just… It’s that you just…”

 

Clint pouted up at him and Steve was going to be damned if that didn’t just make the perfect picture. “I’m not supposed to be _cute_ , Steve. Whoever heard of a cute assassin?”

 

Steve slipped his phone out and snapped a photo of the pouting baby chick, and Clint tried to stomp on his toe. “Clint, you’re currently a two year old. It’d be weird if you weren’t cute.” He chuckled and took another snapshot as Clint’s impossibly small mouth opened in a yawn, revealing an even smaller tongue and a tiny set of teeth. Clint tried to stomp on his toes again. “Let’s get you to bed.”

 

He picked Clint up easily again and lowered Clint into the small crib that Bruce had made. Clint looked around at the bars and frowned uneasily. “Can – can I sleep in your bed?”

 

Steve frowned lightly. “The bars are there to keep you from falling, Clint. My bed doesn’t have that.”

 

“I know, but…” Clint stood up and reached up again, blinking his eyes wide. Steve had to repress a chuckle. Always the top-class assassin, Steve thought. Using all the tools he has at his disposal. Steve couldn’t refuse him as he picked him back up. “You aren’t going to sleep yet, right? You can keep me from falling off the bed.”

 

Clint’s moon-eyes that Steve decided were too large for his face pleaded with him, and Steve sighed. “All right. But you’re going back to the crib when I go back to sleep. I move when I sleep, and I don’t want to crush you.”

 

Clint grinned cheekily. “Yeah, that’s fine. By then I’ll be too sleep drunk to notice.” He tugged on Steve’s arm and Steve let him down on his bed, marveling at how _small_ Clint looked on the large bed. Clint scrambled over to one of his pillows – which was easily bigger than Clint – and snuggled into it, sighing contently. Steve counted to thirty seconds before the turned-toddler fell asleep, his thumb unconsciously returning to his mouth.

 

The alien-ooze actually was doing them more good than bad, Steve thought softly, if it was giving Clint time to actually rest up.

 

\--

 

It wasn’t until two hours later that Clint sat up slowly. “Clint?” Steve looked up from his lamp. He’d dimmed the rest of the lights, and when Clint blinked at him, he stood. “What’s wrong?” He wondered if he should call for Bruce and feel for a fever, but Clint shoved his arms up at him.

 

“Bathroom.” Clint said simply, and Steve forced a chuckle down. He picked Clint up easily. “I don’t need help in there.” Clint mumbled sleepily, lax against Steve’s chest. “That’d be just embarrassing.”

 

“The toilet is a little big for you right now.”

 

“I’m an _assassin_ , Steve. I think I can manage. Plus, you can stand right by the door so you can hear me if I – Jesus Christ – fall in.” In the end, Steve acquiesced, and Clint didn’t lock the door. But as Clint promised, Steve heard the toilet flushing and the water running before he really even had the time to be worried. He opened the door to find leaning over and rubbing his hands on the towel, feet on wet puddles in the marble sink.

 

Steve stood ready to catch Clint immediately just in case he slipped. He didn’t, but stuck his arms out to Steve again. Clint curled up almost immediately in his arms and started to suckle on his thumb, and Steve chuckled. “I’m going to put you in the crib now. Don’t want to wake you up later.”

 

“Mmkay.” Clint answered, only half-awake. When Steve lowered Clint into the crib and pulled the baby blanket over him, Clint turned on his side and his small fist clenched into the blanket. Steve took another photo of the sleeping toddler and grinned as he settled into bed with a book on his lap.

 

\--

 

He carefully carried the crib to the common area the next morning. Bruce carefully fretted over him, checking temperature and listening to breathing and heartbeat. “Seems okay.” Bruce declared with a smile. “How’d he sleep?”

 

“He woke up once to go to the bathroom, but that was it.”

 

“Mm, good. He’s not really at the age where they wake up every two hours, anyway.”

 

Steve frowned lightly. “But he sleeps pretty often. Is this normal?”

 

Bruce nodded with an easy smile. “He’s a toddler. All they do is eat, sleep and play. And since I don’t think Clint is really up to _playing_ or anything else he thinks is too childish, he’s just going to be eating and sleeping. He’ll wake up once he smells food.” Bruce raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s almost like you’re his parent. Both you and Tony.”

 

It was Tony who answered. “That’d make us husbands, so no thanks, Bruce.” He swooped down onto Clint and froze. “Oh, God, Pepper.” He crooned. “How’d she find something so fitting?” He gently picked Clint up and Clint’s eyes opened blearily. “Oh, God, Clint, look at you. I need pictures.”

 

Clint batted Tony away, kicking uselessly with tiny feet that Steve just then noticed. It was impossible, Steve thought, that a person’s feet could be so small. “Go away.” He pouted. “I’m sleepy. Steve has pictures.” Tony glared at Steve, but tucked Clint into the crook of his arm and pulled him up to his chest so that Clint’s chin was resting on his shoulder. Clint fell asleep almost immediately, the hand finding to his lips again.

 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “I analyzed the ooze yesterday and found an antidote, but something tells me you two don’t really want me to have found it.”

 

Steve eyed Clint, contently sleeping in Tony’s arms. “Will the effects wear off?”

 

“Yeah. Chemical analysis shows that the compound should leave him in a month, maximum.” Bruce chuckled. “Clint needs the rest anyway.”

 

Tony snorted and patted Clint’s back as he sat down on the couch. “Yeah, and Pepper bought like fifty different outfits for him to wear. She’d be sad if she didn’t get to try them on her. And looking at this, I’m going to be crushed if I don’t get to see him in them. I actually got a call yesterday.” Steve raised an eyebrow at him. “From a baby modeling company. They asked if Clint could model for their special issue.”

 

Bruce frowned. “Clint is going to hate that. I hope you said no.”

 

Tony turned to scowl at him. “Of course I said no. I’m not sharing this. This is way too precious.” He gently lifted Clint from his shoulder and held him so he could examine Clint. “Yeah.” He sighed, bringing him back closer to his chest. Clint was pleasantly warm against him, and Tony could feel his heart beating. “This is way too precious.”


	2. Chapter 2

iii. Bruce Banner

 

Bruce was not going to look at the toddler that kept tugging on his pants leg, whining and crying. If Steve or Tony were here, Bruce thought, they’d have swept Clint up the moment he started to sniffle and given Bruce a death glare.

 

Unfortunately for Clint, Bruce is a strict believer of giving discipline to small children when they needed it, even if said small children were actually adults. Plus, it wasn’t as if Bruce wasn’t letting Clint on top of the counter out of spite. It was legitimately dangerous. “Clint.” He sighed, looking down at the de-aged assassin, who sniffled for good measure. “You aren’t getting up here, all right? I’m cooking. There are a thousand things that can go wrong if you’re up here when I’m cooking. There’s a knife, and there’s oil and flour all over the place, not to mention that I have three fires going.”

 

“JARVIS’ll turn off the fires immediately if I fall. Not to mention that I’m an assassin, Bruce. I can make my way around a couple of knives, thanks.” Pepper had dressed Clint in one of the animal hoodies again – Bruce had no idea where she’d bought them from, except that Clint looked ridiculously cute in his one-piece yellow pajamas. Currently he had on a black hoodie with cat ears on top along with a tail attached to the back. He had black sweatpants on the bottom, giving him an odd outline of a large cat.

 

Bruce sighed again. “Clint, you know that your assassin training went with your age. Your muscle doesn’t know any of them. And you know it’s true, you can’t even climb up onto the counter.” Clint pursed his lips in a frown, but then pulled his puppy face, worrying his bottom lip and opening his eyes wide. Bruce sighed for what felt like the millionth time. “Clint, you know that’s not going to work on me. Maybe it’ll work on Tony or Steve, but not me.”

 

Clint gave him a half-hearted kick to his shin, and Bruce reached down to pat his head. Clint sullenly allowed it. “I’m _bored_. Natasha and Steve are on a mission, Tony and Pepper are at some goddamned meeting, Thor’s too scared to touch me, and Coulson’s always busy.”

 

Bruce straightened himself up. “That’s why I’m making you food, Clint, but I can’t make you food if you keep bothering me.” Clint took the point but kicked Bruce in the shin again, not that it really hurt. Clint settled for sitting down right next to Bruce’s feet with a snort, crossing his arms and trying to look annoyed without looking petulant. Bruce thought he was failing spectacularly, but decided not to mention it.

 

It was about ten more minutes until he bent to pick Clint up and scoop him onto the table. They hadn’t bothered to purchase a baby chair – Clint balked at the notion of sitting in one – so instead Pepper had solved the problem by buying an incredibly large, firm cushion to put on Clint’s usual chair so he could still be at table level. Bruce honestly did not know where Pepper got all her shopping done.

 

But in the end, Clint usually sat on the table and ate. Natasha had thought it would be hilarious to see Clint eating on a bath stool, but it had turned out it was actually the perfect height for Clint, so sometimes when they were just snacking on the couch, Clint would roll it around and use it as a table.

 

Of course, today Bruce wasn’t going to plop Clint down in his cushioned chair, on the table, or on the stool. He sat down and Clint plopped down on his lap, taking a plastic fork into his hands. Originally no one had thought of toddler utensils, but Clint started complaining that his wrists were hurting after two days, and it was Steve who thought the reason might be the heavy adult utensils he was using.

 

So Tony had bought the plastic ones (complete with Mickey Mouse on top) and Clint, though he sulked and would never admit it, stopped having aching wrists. Bruce leaned back with a paper in hand – Tony had insisted it was a fascinating read, and it honestly was. But he couldn’t help but be distracted by Clint eating pancakes.

 

Clint was humming happily with the Mickey Mouse fork in one hand and the small pitcher of maple syrup that Natasha had plucked up from a dollar store in the other. He looked like an actual child, happy with the world with nothing to worry about other than when the food came. Bruce couldn’t help but reach over and ruffle Clint’s hair.

 

Clint looked up at him with an exasperated sigh. “Not you, too.”

 

Bruce laughed. “Do Steve and Tony do this to you often?”

 

“Often? You mean every time they see me? Their eyes go all googly and I’m pretty sure Tony’s doing all he can to keep himself from rubbing his cheek all over me.” Clint sighed. “It’s going to wear off, you know.”

 

Bruce nodded. “In three weeks, or so, now. Shame.” Clint snorted in reply and ate the rest of the pancake. In seconds he was falling asleep, head lolling against Bruce’s chest, and Bruce chuckled. He carefully slid an arm around Clint and lifted him up. He didn’t even realize he was humming Mozart’s lullaby until Clint cooed in his sleep, sighing contently and turning in Bruce’s arms until he found a comfortable position tucked into the crook of Bruce’s elbow.

 

\--

 

He hadn’t even realized he had fallen asleep until he had the vague sense he was being watched. “Jesus Christ.” He whispered when he found Natasha inches from his nose. “Natasha, do you really have to do that? The other guy could have come out. Oh god, with Clint in my arm.” Bruce’s eyes dropped down to where the toddler was still asleep against his chest.

 

Natasha grinned. “I was trying to see how long it’d take you to wake up. Less than a minute, though, doc. Pretty impressive. And no worries. Even if you Hulked out, I would have had enough time to grab Clint and run the fuck out of here. I took all of this into consideration. Plus, Thor is in the kitchen downstairs. The moment he heard the other guy, he would have come smashing through the floor in about five seconds.”

 

Right. Bruce sighed and shifted Clint in his arm. His arm was falling asleep, which wasn’t a surprise, but Clint’s warmth on his chest was nice. Of course Natasha would consider all the factors when it came to Clint. “Right. But still. You know how I don’t like the other guy coming out.”

 

Natasha only snickered up at him before she rose and flopped down on the couch next to him, turning the TV onto low volume. She spent half the time sniggering at the TV and half the time smirking at Bruce, and he decided to ignore it and drift right back onto sleep.

 

The next time he was woken was by Clint, who was insistently tugging on his arm hair. “Clint.” He sighed. “What is it?”

 

“Bathroom.” Clint made a face, and Bruce laughed. Clint had accepted the fact that he could not reach the knobs to open the doors. Most of the doors in the Stark Tower were automatic and opened either when they sensed a person or when JARVIS was requested, but after a few awkward announcements of who was in the bathroom and unwanted encounters, they’d decided the bathroom doors were going to be the traditional lock-and-knob doors.

 

Meaning Clint couldn’t open bathroom doors. Bruce chuckled in amusement as he turned the door handle for Clint and let Clint down. Clint shut the door with a click, and Bruce knew there was a stool in there that Clint could climb if he wanted to lock it, but Clint didn’t. For the mental well-being of everyone, Bruce thought, remembering the last time that Clint _had_ locked the door out of spite, he’d ended up slipping on the sink and crashing down onto the floor. Thankfully, Natasha had been the one watching over him and she’d shot the doorknob once she found it was locked, and Clint had gotten away with a bruise on his forehead instead of anything else serious.

 

Bruce was in the middle of picking Clint back up when the door to the floor opened and Coulson walked in. “Dr. Banner.” He said. “Director Fury would appreciate your input on a couple of radiation sites. You need to come into the Helicarrier.”

 

Bruce frowned. He normally didn’t mind working for SHIELD – it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, and he was technically on their payroll, but he had Clint to worry about. “All right. I’ll find Natasha, give me a second.”

 

“Agent Romanoff is already at SHIELD.”

 

Bruce’s frown deepened. “Thor won’t touch Clint, though, and I can’t leave him here alone.”

 

Coulson nodded. “Of course not. I’ll be staying here to look after Agent Barton.”

 

iv. Phil Coulson

 

When Phil first heard the condition of his best agentn, Phil had been upset that the information didn’t shock him as much as it should have had. But to be honest, between all his dealings with aliens, a chemical that made humans age backward didn’t really seem bizarre.

 

It was more bizarre, he thought, that Fury had sent him to babysit Barton, of all things. Currently he and Barton were sitting in the common area of the Avengers Tower, doing not much but staring at each other. Barton was currently dressed in a cat-hoodie, of all things, one which Phil supposed was Pepper Potts’ work.

 

Phil looked back down onto the list of things the doctor had written for him before he left, bullet points describing things he should do in certain situations. If Barton fell asleep, which he did often, apparently, Phil was not to put him on the couch or to his bed, but in the crib either in Steve’s room or in the common area. If he was hungry, there was a fruit smoothie that Pepper had made in the morning before she and Stark had left, and he was to give it to Clint. If the doctor and Agent Romanoff were not back by dinnertime, Phil was to order from the list that was tacked onto the fridge. If Barton wanted to use the bathroom, Phil was to open the bathroom door for him, stand outside but make sure the he didn’t lock the door. Also, if none of the Avengers really got back on time, he was to put Clint to sleep by 9.

 

Phil felt like a baby sitter that had been hired by parents who were leaving their precious toddler for a job. Barton snickered at Phil, but Phil found it hard to feel lowered when the archer was currently about two feet tall. And wearing a hoodie that had cat ears and a tail.

 

“I’m going to be working, Barton.” Phil said, standing up and wondering if he should pick Barton up. “Tell me if you’re hungry or if you want to use the bathroom.” Barton waved him away – it was a strange gesture coming from a toddler and waddled over to the remote control. Phil wondered briefly if he should be concerned about Barton watching Inception – it was rated PG-13, and Barton was definitely not 13 in his body – but quelled the thought immediately. Ridiculous.

 

He was so absorbed in paperwork that he forgot about the toddler archer until he felt a tug on his pants. He looked down, alarmed for a second, until he came eye-to-eye with blue eyes. “I’m hungry, Coulson.” Barton said, his bottom lip sticking out. That was a pout, Phil realized. Oh god, his best agent was turning into a two year old.

 

“Right, there’s smoothie in the fridge.” Phil sighed. “Really, Barton, I’m sure you could have asked JARVIS to open the fridge door for you. I’m doing _your_ old paperwork.”

 

Barton rolled his eyes. “I don’t want a smoothie, Coulson. It’s almost 7 PM, I want dinner.” He pointed a short finger upward at the list posted on the fridge door. “I like Stefano.” He stuck his arms out in an unmistakably pick-me-up pose.

 

Phil sighed and bent down to lift Barton and carried him to the fridge. There were five names on the fridge, two unmistakably French and two unmistakable Italian and _Stefano_ , who could be French or Italian or Spanish or anything else. Of course Barton would like the in-between. There were no numbers, or instructions, so Phil took his best guess – and Phil’s best guesses were usually correct. “JARVIS, please order a meal for Barton from Mr. Stefano.”

 

“ _Certainly, Agent Coulson. Would you also want a meal, as well?_ ”

 

“Why not. Make it two.”

 

“ _Done, Agent Coulson. Your meal will arrive in approximately forty-five minutes._ ”

 

It took exactly 38 minutes and 12 seconds for their meal to arrive. Barton requested to be put down onto the table – Phil didn’t miss the large cushion on one of the chairs, but did anyway. “My fork and spoon. Over there.” Phil looked over and suppressed a chuckle when he grabbed the plastic Mickey Mouse utensil set. He grabbed the silver ones for himself and settled into the chair nearest Barton as he dug in. Small peas, cooked carrots, steamed broccoli and soft chicken covered in some sauce for Barton, he noted, watching tiny teeth nibble on food.

 

He was so fascinated – who knew toddlers could be so engrossing? “You’re much more agreeable this way, Barton.” He chuckled, finally eating his own food. Barton stuck his tongue out at him and ate through his meal. Phil took care of the cleanup but kept a wary eye on Barton, who decided standing up and walking to the paperwork Phil had on the other side of the table was a good idea.

 

Thankfully, Barton didn’t topple over the table and off of it while Phil was shoving containers down the trash chute, but Phil still felt much better when Clint plopped down and pulled a sheet of paper to his front. “Oh, god, this is from like five months ago.”

 

Phil fixed him with a glare. “Yes, and it _still_ hasn’t been done.”

 

Barton was way too happy when he said, “Well, sadly, can’t really pick up a legitimate pen or type with these tiny fingers.”

 

\--

 

Phil had once again been lost in thought when someone cleared his throat. He looked back to see Thor standing in the common area. “He is meant to be sleeping now, I think.” Thor said, shifting on his feet. Phil glanced at the clock that read 9:47 and winced, glancing back at Barton. The toddler was curled up on the table, but obviously uncomfortable. Plus, the wooden table was cold, and he was shivering lightly. “I brought his sleep clothing.”

 

Thor handed Phil something ridiculously yellow, and when Phil held it out he saw that it was supposed to be imitating a baby chick. Pepper Potts, he thought, where in the world do you find these things? He coaxed Clint just awake enough to pull the black hoodie and sweatpants off of him and ease the loose shirt on. Clint sighed once Phil picked him up and placed him into the crib in the common area, curling into a loose ball under the blanket and suckling on his thumb. Phil needed a picture of this. It was clearly blackmail material.

 

“Why won’t you touch him?” Phil wondered, after he snapped a photo on his phone.

 

Thor looked uncomfortable. “I have never been good with children, and… he is a little too fragile right now.”

 

Phil nodded, understanding. “You may have to get used to it. He’s going to be like this for another month, right? We’ve barely gone through five days. You never know when no one else will be available to watch over him. Plus, he’s not as fragile as you think he is.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joseph Gordon-Levitt is shamelessly mentioned. Because of reasons.

v. Natasha Romanoff

 

It wasn’t as if Natasha hid them, it was just that no one asked. If people did ask, she thought she’d tell them. She was a girl, after all. What was wrong with having an army of stuffed animals? Clint knew, of course, because he’d been on her floor before, as did Coulson. Both of them had thought it was highly amusing – Clint had rolled around in laughter and Coulson had raised _both_ of his eyebrows, which was something – but neither had said anything derogatory. Clint had actually stolen one of her animals. She had yet to figure out which one, which was infuriating, but that just showed how much she had.

 

She plopped Clint down on her bed, along with about ten dolls, and grinned. “There, you look perfectly in place.” Clint rolled his eye at her. Natasha was the one that had dressed him today, and she’d done it exactly to match the dolls on her bed, as it was her turn to look over him. He was dressed in a orange-and-black hoodie, complete with two tiger ears. “Look at the little kitten.” She cooed, flipping the hoodie up onto his face.

 

“So you think I should tell them?” Clint looked up at her through eyes that were half covered with the striped hoodie.

 

“That you know they have an antidote?” Natasha sat next to him. “I think so. I think Bruce is starting to feel guilty.” She shrugged. “Might be nice to let them know you don’t really care.” She snickered at him. “That you actually enjoy being pampered like this.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes again. “It’s nice, all right? Plus, they really have to remember I still have the mind of an adult. I’m pretty alert even when I’m half-asleep.” He flipped back and kicked his bare legs up into the air. It gave Natasha the image of a cub flipped onto its back and flailing to get back up, and she stifled a laugh. “What would I even say? ‘Hey, guys, by the way, I actually overheard you guys talking about the antidote, but don’t feel guilty because I actually enjoy being pampered like an actual two year old.’ Because that sounds real nice.”

 

Natasha grabbed the tiny ankles – they fit in one hand with room to spare – and yanked Clint up. Clint protested, trying to kick and punch, but in the end settled for keeping his hoodie covering his legs. “That sounds good, actually. What’s better than the blunt truth?”

 

Clint managed to get enough of a swing so he could grab at her arm and hang off of it. Impressive, she thought, considering he had the body of a two year old. She didn’t think she could have done it when she was two, but then again Clint was the only person who she couldn’t sneak up on, the only person that could sneak up on her. “Yeah, Nat, blunt truth isn’t _always_ the best choice, you know.”

 

Natasha huffed. “You boys.” She let Clint down on the bed. “Always so complicated. Just tell them. Bruce and the Captain are starting to feel really guilty. For Stark, I can’t really say.” She snickered.

 

Clint sighed. “All right, I’ll talk to them during lunch. Speaking of which, I’m starving. Haul me down to the kitchen so I can eat some of Pepper’s dumplings.”

 

“You’re not supposed to be eating deep fried stuff.”

 

“Pepper’s dumplings are steamed, not deep fried.” Clint stuck his tongue out, and she really had no choice but to pick him up and head down to the kitchen. Plus, she was pretty hungry herself. Or so she told herself, because if no one was immune to Clint’s baby-charms, they were in pretty big trouble.

 

\--

 

She’d settled Clint into the bath stool-turned-table with the plate of steamed dumplings for maybe three seconds when Tony waltzed into the room, looking haggard and eyes searching for most definitely Clint. When they settled on the toddler plopped down on the middle of the floor, stabbing dumplings with his plastic fork, Tony dramatically pounced over and scooped Clint up into his arms.

 

Clint didn’t even flinch. “Had a nice business meeting?”

 

“Nice is on the wrong side of the spectrum for a business meeting that took five days.” Tony grumbled, letting Clint go so he could go back at stabbing at the dumplings and dipping them into soy sauce with not much success. Natasha was counting the seconds until Clint gave up on the fork and used his hands. “Evening, Agent Romanoff. You look deadly stunning, as always.” Tony watched Clint stab at the dumplings for a while and picked one up with his fingers. Clint gave up on the utensil with an agitated huff and a tiny hand grabbed into a pork bun that was easily three times the hand’s size.

 

Natasha only responded by snatching Tony’s dumpling out of his hands and biting into it. “The Dark Knight Rises is on.” She jerked her head to the TV. “So shhh.”

 

“But I watched it three times.” Tony groaned. “Twice on the way there and once on the way back.”

 

“Your loss, Stark.” Natasha moved so Clint could settle in her lap and attempt to divide his focus onto pork bun and the movie. “Plus, Clint and I adore Joseph Gordon-Levitt. He’s got a cute ass.”

 

“ _I’ve_ got a cute ass.” Clint muttered around the pork bun. “He’s got the cute face. He looks like jailbait.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Clint, I’m going to remind you that you’re currently two years old. So you’re slightly cuter and slightly more jailbait. And I don’t want to think about a two year old’s ass as cute. So he’s got the cute ass and you’ve got the cute face.”

 

Clint mulled over it for about two seconds. “Point taken.”

 

Tony stayed wisely silent from then on until the end of the movie.

 

\--

 

Natasha was with Clint – not necessarily _with_ Clint, but in the vents overhead – when Clint told Steve and Bruce and Tony that he knew about the antidote. Fast, brutal truth, like she’d suggested. Steve blushed, Bruce looked embarrassed and even Tony looked a little sorry, but Clint waved it off with a baby-coo and a smile. She snorted as she dropped down from the ceiling, surprising the three of them but not Clint. “I heard you breathing.” Clint pointed out. “You can’t breathe that loud in the air vents.”

 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “No one else would know. Captain, did you hear me breathing in the vents?”

 

Steve recovered quickly from his initial shock and the bizarre question. “No, not at all.”

 

“See?” Natasha poked Clint’s chubby baby-fat cheek and popped a grape into her lips, wondering if Tony knew grapes were a choking hazard for children.

 

“Yeah, but _I_ could hear you, and if one person could hear you, that’s one too many.” They got into an argument about spying in air ducts and breathing too loud.

 

Bruce laughed. “Do you know how weird it is to watch a tiny Russian woman and a two year old infant argue about espionage? This needs to be recorded.”

 

vi. Nick Fury and Maria Hill

 

Nick was not sure how this came to be. He was not sure at all.

 

But currently he had one of his best agents in a _crib_ of all things, rocking the bed back and forth and whining that he was hungry, dressed in a white lamb hoodie. A fucking lamb hoodie. If he’d thought Barton’s whining was bad when he was an adult, it was about a thousand times worse in the toddler’s high-pitched voice and bottomless energy. “Barton.” He snapped, finally, looking up from his computer. “Shut the fuck up.”

 

Barton glared. “You’re supposed to be feeding me, _sir_ , when I get hungry. I’m in a two year old’s body, for fuck’s sake, I get hungry pretty often. Gimme a cookie or something.” He stuck his hand through the crib’s bar. “Or I’ll knock the crib down and wreak havoc through the entire Helicarrier. I can do it, you know.”

 

Nick had absolutely no doubts of that. Barton had a knack for causing chaos ever since Nick had first recruited him as a teenager, but back then it had been Coulson’s job and Coulson’s responsibility. Nick wondered for the hundredth time what he’d been thinking when he’d sent the Avengers sans Barton with Coulson on a mission in Cambodia, but then again there was no one else who could really pull it off.

 

He rummaged through the very pink case that Stark had dropped off onto his desk that morning with a smug grin and pulled out a box of home baked chocolate chip cookies. He popped one into his mouth – still warm and moist – and dumped the box into the crib. Barton hummed in satisfaction as he leaned up against the bars that were on Nick’s side, and Nick didn’t hear the bites into the pastry but saw the tiny hands holding one.

 

This was ridiculous, and Coulson had warned him early on that toddler-Barton was going to be a distraction. And Nick had innocently thought that he could be a better man than Phil Coulson. What had given him such a blasphemous idea?

 

He jabbed his radio and called for Hill. He was _not_ going to be distracted by a two year old assassin with a sweet tooth. He just wasn’t.

 

\--

 

“You’re excused from the rest of your duties today. They should be back by tonight.” He said, holding the too-pink basket and pushing the crib in her direction. She looked at him as if he was handing her rat infested poison.

 

“Sir.” She said, but he cleared his throat and looked at the crib to find Barton grinning annoyingly brightly at both of them. She glared at him, but his smile stayed, quirky and promising hell on both of them.

 

Nick didn’t know why it was more frightening to see the chaos-smile on the baby version of Clint Barton than it was on the adult one. And it was pretty frightening on the adult one. Nick didn’t bother hiding his sigh. “Make sure all the damage you do is reversible, Barton.”

 

Barton rolled his eyes. “I can’t do that much damage in this body, sir. I wouldn’t get so worked up about it.” Right. Nick relaxed about a fraction of a millimeter. How much damage _could_ Barton do? In that form he couldn’t pick up his weapon of choice or reach his favorite vents. Actually, in that form he couldn’t pick up much of any weapon or reach much of anywhere. The most he could do, Nick figured, was cry up a storm and snot up everywhere. He highly doubted that Barton could even climb out of the crib.

 

\--

 

“Hill-“

 

“No.”

 

“I haven’t even asked a question yet!”

 

“Whatever it is, no.” Maria rubbed her forehead. Taking care of the toddler had been easy enough for the first two hours, when Barton had fallen asleep in his crib. After he’d woken up, she had no choice but to drag him to the training field with the rookies. She’d spread a sheet for him on the grass and plopped him and the pink basket on top of it, and fixed the rookies with a glare just in case they were stupid enough to say anything.

 

Barton had settled for flipping through the internet on a StarkPad on his stomach, a chocolate chip cookie in one hand. He looked severely out of place on the training grounds in his white lamb-hoodie, pink basket, but none of the rookies said anything, and Barton hadn’t uttered a word. Until now.

 

“I need to use the bathroom.” Barton said matter-of-factly. “I can’t reach the door knob. You don’t even have to carry me there, just open the door for me.” She stared at him for a full ten seconds, aware the junior agents were also staring. Cursing fully under her breath, she remembered that Coulson had warned her of the bathroom problem. She bent down, swooped the toddler under her arm like a pack of files, and yanked the toilet door open for him. “Just don’t close the door all the way and you can leave.” Clint said. “Don’t look at me like that, Hill, I’ve been a good agent.” He blinked his eyes owlishly at her.

 

Right. She closed the door but made sure it didn’t click shut as she stormed back to her rookie agents, all of whom stared wide-eyed at her, clearly frightened as she barked orders at them.

 

It wasn’t until a _long_ time later that one of the rookies spoke up, “Isn’t he taking a long time in there?”

 

Hill would have snapped his head off, but she paused and thought about it. The bathroom. Which had a toilet that Barton could climb into. From which he could climb onto the sink. From which he could get a foot holding on the cabinet. From which he could reach the –

 

The fucking air vent. Cursing venomously under her breath, she ran so fast to the bathroom that she almost teleported, and yanked the door open. True enough, the vent cover was propped onto the sink, and a message was written out in soap on the mirror. _I win, Hill!_

 

She pointed to the nearest rookie agents. “You three, climb up in there after him.” They looked scandalized. “There isn’t a possible way you can get lost. If you feel like you’ve been in there too long, pop a vent open and drop down. If you’re not in there for at least an hour before you give up, I will personally shoot you through the balls. You, go inform Director Fury that Agent Barton is in the vents. Again. And you two, come with me. We’re going eyass hunting. This is _part of your training_. You will be marked on it.”

 

She gritted her teeth as she stalked through the door, wondering if she should thank Barton for providing her rookies with a challenge or strangle him for giving her this massive headache.

 

Probably the latter, she decided viciously, when Fury’s angry voice snapped at her through the comms.

 

\--

 

It took Fury, Maria, a crew of six rookies, 10 trained agents, along with the returned Avengers and Coulson to find Barton. It was actually Maria who found him, snuggled against a cooling vent and curled up, giving the illusion of an actual tiny lamb there.

 

She fought the sadistic urge to yell at him right there and then, mostly because he stirred when she neared and sat up, rubbing his fists into his eyes. Aw, she thought, against all her will. How cute. She sighed and kicked the nearest vent down and held a hand out to him. He crawled over to her, still bleary from sleep, but before he could catch her hand, she withdrew it. “If you do this again,” she said, her voice low and deadly, “I will kill you.”

 

Barton only grinned sleepily at her. He shot a glance at her watch. “It took you 4 hours and 12 minutes to find me. You know you’re glad to see me.” She only fixed him with a dagger glare, and he snickered as she tucked him under her arm again like a pack of files and dropped down onto the floor below.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep adding chapters, but I think 5 is going to be the last part. >

vii. Clint Barton

 

Clint was kind of proud of himself. He’d _warned_ Fury and Hill that he was going to wreck hell, didn’t he? Well, he hadn’t warned them specifically, yes, but they should have picked it up from his grinning. Now all would be goddamned well, if sleeping next to a cooling vent hadn’t given him a cold.

 

He coughed miserably, digging deeper into the sheets for warmth. He could tell the rest of the Avengers were hovering nearby, fretting, but his head was pounding, his ear was burning and he was so goddamned cold that he could do nothing but wail.

 

They took turns holding him. He knew that much. He could tell between Natasha’s slender arms, Bruce’s gentle but firm grasp, Steve’s soothing hands and Tony’s increasingly worried hold. “Ear infection.” Bruce announced quietly. “He’s got an ear infection. It’s no surprise, considering he was sleeping next to the cooling duct and who knows what’s going on in there.”

 

“Fuck.” Tony said, his grip on Clint tightening enough for Clint to start sobbing again. He felt like an actual _baby,_ but his ear and head hurt as if someone was driving a jackhammer into his skull, and he bawled. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Clint. Shh. Shh. Bruce, _do something_.”

 

Bruce sounded desperate. “I gave him antibiotics already. I can’t do anything else.”

 

Clint hiccupped and groaned. His stomach was churning, and fuck because he knew what that meant. “Tony.” He tried to warn. “Tony, the sink – let me go-” Unfortunately, his gurgle had the opposite effect of what he wanted and Tony clutched him tighter. It wasn’t his fault, he decided, that he threw up all over Tony’s who-knew-how-expensive clothes.

 

“Fuck.” Tony cursed, but didn’t drop Clint. “Fuck, Bruce, what’s wrong with him?”

 

Strong hands plucked Clint from Tony’s grip. “Ear infection.” Bruce’s voice was tight. “Sometimes it makes babies vomit.”

 

Natasha sounded worried and annoyed at the same time. “Clint, this is what you get for hiding next to a cooling vent for _five hours._ ”

 

“Four hours and fifteen minutes.” Clint protested. When he felt another surge of nausea, he tried to push Bruce away, but Bruce held him tight as he leaned Clint over the nearest sink. Clint whimpered and tugged at his ear, and Bruce’s hand gently held his hand away. “Make it stop.” He whimpered, letting his head fall onto Bruce’s shoulder. “It hurts.”

 

Bruce winced. “JARVIS, I need a steamed, completely disinfected towel.”

 

“ _Right away, sir._ ” In moments JARVIS’s mechanical arm provided something with a hissing sound, but Clint had thrown up again during the short time and was quivering violently in Bruce’s arms, wailing.

 

A warm, damp something was pressed to his ear and it seemed to soak up the pain almost immediately. He sighed and fell limp against it, spent from both the jackhammering in his ear and crying. The throbbing remained, but it was now dull and bearable. In any case, he still couldn’t find the energy to open his eyes. “Let’s get him into his pajamas.”

 

“I _like_ these clothes.” Clint mumbled against Bruce’s chest. “I like penguins.” He felt Bruce’s chuckle rumble through his chest before he heard it and he lolled his head the other way. Bruce’s hand with the warm towel followed without hesitation.

 

“You make an adorable penguin, Clint.” Bruce said. “But let’s get you into something less constricting.” Clint nodded, sniffling. He felt another hand wipe at his face, and he cracked his eyes open to find Steve’s worry-creased face staring at him. He had the goddamned yellow pajama in one hand, but for once Clint couldn’t bring himself to hate it. He reached his hands up so Steve could ease the hoodie off of him, somehow maneuvering around Bruce’s hand and the towel, and then ease the pajama shirt back on before tugging his jeans off.

  
There was some jostling, and a change of towels, and Clint found himself gingerly put down into his crib. He sniffled and curled up on his side, but was coaxed onto his back by Steve’s hands, and fell into exhausted sleep a few moments later.

 

\--

 

_“God, it was so fucking heartbreaking. It shouldn’t affect me like that. He’s not 2.”_

_“When you’re in that tiny body, an ear infection is probably the most painful common disease. He probably couldn’t help it, and his body didn’t know what else to do but cry for help. It’s his muscles taking over his brain.”_

_“But he kept crying and wouldn’t stop and when he started throwing up, just, Jesus Christ, how the fuck do we make sure this never happens again in the next three weeks?”_

 

 _“We just keep his ears clean. It shouldn’t happen again so soon. We should still stock up on children’s medicine, just in case._ ”

 

\--

 

_“Is he still asleep?”_

_“Yeah. His fever hasn’t gone down, either.”_

_“Is he going to be okay?”_

_“It’ll take a bit of time, but he’ll be fine. It’s a common disease. I just wish I’d thought of precautions against it before it actually happened.”_

\--

 

_“I was merely watching over him, and he started to shake so badly.”_

_“Thor, you can pick him up, you know. He’s not that fragile.”_

_“I… Perhaps I will give it a try, when he is not so sick. Is he all right?”_

_“Yeah, he’s okay. He’s fine, he just had to throw up and get it out of his system. He’ll be okay. Don’t look like that. Bruce said he was going to be okay, so he’s gonna be fine.”_

 

\--

 

The next time Clint was coherent, he realized four things. First, someone was still driving a jackhammer into his head. Two, he was cold. Three, he had to throw up again, and four… Well. His teammates loved him. He fought against an insistent instinct to start wailing on the top of his lung again and managed to sit up by grabbing at the bars. “Clint.” Steve picked him up within a second, examining Clint. “Are you – no, you aren’t okay.”

 

“Sink.” Clint moaned, and Steve hauled him to the sink just in time for Clint to throw up into the sink. “I didn’t even eat that much.”

 

“You’re not vomiting very much at once.” Steve said, sounding more lost then when they’d first dug him out of the ice and told him it was the 21st century. “Hold on. JARVIS, could you… a towel…” Steve sounded awkward, as he always did when he asked JARVIS to do anything. JARVIS responded efficiently, and Clint found the pain being seeped away by the towel again and let his head drop onto Steve’s chest. “Feel better?”

 

Clint sighed in relief. “Yeah.” He sniffled. “I’m sorry for being such a bother.”

 

Steve chuckled and walked over to sit on the couch, keeping his hand on the towel. “Clint, you aren’t a bother. I promise. Remember we’re the one who withheld the antidote from you?”

 

Clint laughed, but it ended up in a coughing fit that made him whimper. “Yeah, you bastards.” He managed to chuckle. “It’s okay. I still don’t want it.”

 

Steve laughed, but Clint heard the guilty note. He decided to ignore it for now – his head was still too delirious from the ache in his ear. “Oh, hold on. Before you fall back asleep, Bruce said you give you your medicine.” Clint felt himself being lifted again – or rather he felt Steve standing up. A few steps later, he found an obnoxious purple – even for him - liquid pressed to his lips, and he opened his lips obligingly. Surprisingly, it was not the saccharine, fake grape-tasting liquid he’d expected. Steve chuckled. “Bruce whipped it up. How’s it taste?”

 

“Good.” Clint sighed. “I’m sleepy, and the towel’s getting cold.”

 

It wasn’t, at all. JARVIS had probably done something to it to keep it from getting cold too fast, but Steve didn’t say anything as he quickly got a new towel. It just gave Clint an excuse to thump his head back onto Steve’s chest and fall back asleep, listening to Steve’s breathing through his chest, the pain in his ear less and less severe.

 

The next time he woke up he realized he was in a different set of arms. Tony was holding him up with one arm – Tony had mastered its art after three days – and was scrolling through an almost-muted TV with the remote with the other hand. As the TV definitely did _not_ need a remote, Clint figured it was Tony just having an excuse to hold him with one arm. He liked to show off because none of the others had quite mastered the skill. “Hey.” Tony said, looking down at him. “How’s the ear?”

 

“Better.” And it’s an honest answer – the ache is still there, but it’s barely noticeable. “Am I healed?”

 

Tony snorted. “No, though I wish you are. Ear infections don’t disappear that easily. Thankfully Bruce and I are chemical geniuses. We mixed a very mild painkiller along with antibiotics and made eardrops, so it’s mostly the painkillers at work right now. You’ve still got a pretty heavy fever. I can feel it.”

 

Clint felt it. His body wasn’t in pain, but he felt sluggish and heavy, limbs drooping where he wanted them to be flexing. “Guh.” He managed, and Tony chuckled, patting him on the back. Clint noticed the warm towel was gone.

 

“We have an idea.” Clint managed to look up at Tony’s words. “To get Thor to touch you.” Clint kept his head up, finding energy to stay alert. “We’re all going to leave, except Thor. Natasha and I have it all planned out. It’ll be like last time, where Coulson or Fury or Hill looked after you, except this time they’ll be busy. And yeah, Thor’ll probably just watch you from afar, but you’re _hurt_. You’re sick, so there’s no way he’ll just let you be, especially if you do that thing were you cry and wrench everyone’s hearts out stomp on it a bit before playing soccer with it.”

 

Clint grinned apologetically. “I didn’t mean to.”

 

“Yeah, but it should work on Thor, which is the point. You’re going to wake up, no one’s gonna be here, Thor’s gonna be in the kitchen or something but keeping an eye out on you, and then you’re gonna wail your head off.”

 

Clint nodded against Tony’s shirt. “If it doesn’t work?”

 

“Well, I won’t _actually_ be away. I’ll be watching through JARVIS. If he can’t get his balls together and give you medication after like five minutes, I’m going to be bursting through.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

viii. Thor Odinson

 

Thor was obviously distressed. All alone in the Tower, with the infant Clint. He had tried to plead with the others to switch, but the answer was the same: Thor was too loud, and this particular mission required silence.

 

So Thor hovered near the crib. Clint-as-a-toddler was sleeping fitfully, coughing and whimpering in sleep. Bruce had explained to him to feed Clint the purple liquid and put a drop of the clear one in Clint’s ear if he was in too much pain when he woke up. Thor had been trying to figure out how to do exactly that without laying even a finger on Clint. It was not turning out so well.

 

It wasn’t that he did not want to touch Clint. He wanted to. The other Avengers looked like they found their peace when they came back from a tiring day and plucked the toddler up and just held him, and Clint would grumble and hit with his impossibly tiny fists, but end up grinning all the same. Thor wanted to try it, especially because Natasha had told him infants are warmer than adults.

 

But human infants were so dangerously fragile. What if Thor squeezed too hard and broke an arm? Or a leg? Or worse, his spine? Thor still remembered when he’d gripped Clint too hard and left a hand-shaped bruise on the archer’s wrist, and he trembled. Thor didn’t quite do _careful_ , which was what you apparently needed in caring for a child.

 

All of Thor’s thoughts went out the window when Clint let out a particularly pained whimper and his eyes blinked open. Clint’s body did exactly what the 2-year-old body instincts told it to do in pain: stick arms up, bawl, and wait for a caretaker to get rid of the problem.

 

Thor froze. Clint stopped crying for a second to hiccup, opened his eyes and saw Thor. He wailed again and miniscule hands clutched helplessly at Thor’s direction. Feed him the clear liquid, drop the purple – no, no. Feed him the purple liquid. Right. The purple one smelled sweet. Feed Clint the sweet liquid.

 

Feeding was going to be impossible without picking Clint up, so Thor grabbed the squeeze bottle and held it to Clint’s ear. Clint held still when he saw what Thor was up to, tilting his head, hiccupping and clutching at the sheets, and Thor squeezed with the smallest strength he could muster, holding the bottle wouldn’t pour out.

 

A single drop plopped into Clint’s ear. Thor would have jumped to celebrate his success, but Clint petulantly held his arms up again. “Thor.” Clint said, his voice wet from tears. “Pick me up.”

 

Thor hesitated, one hand still holding the squeeze bottle. “Clint, I – I cannot.”

 

Clint gave him a glare, and then did something Thor could not possible comprehend. He stood up with a grimace, climbed onto the edge and deliberately fell off of it.

 

Thor acted on impulse. He threw the squeeze bottle away and jumped, arms outstretched, and the soft thump of flesh on his hands made him sigh in relief before he realized what was going on. Clint blinked smugly through a face mottled with tears and snot at him, and when Thor tried to put him back, stiff-muscled, Clint held onto his thumb. Clint’s tiny fist fit snugly around Thor’s thumb, and Thor could fit the toddler in two hands. How was that even possible? “Come on, big guy.” Clint said softly. “You’re doing fine, just hold me.” Thor stood, frozen in place, until Clint sighed and curled up as best as he could on the platform made by Clint’s hands. “If you don’t hold me better, I’m going to fall off.”

 

Thor saw the logic in that, and he cautiously brought the toddler to his chest, tucking his arm under Clint the way he’d seen Tony do so often. Clint sighed in satisfaction and a tiny fist curled onto his shirt. It felt like he was holding a tiny ball of flame, breathing and so alive in his arms. “Clint.” He whispered. “May I… May I keep holding you?”

 

Clint looked up at him and laughed. “Yeah, Thor. That’s the point. Not so scary, is it?”

 

No, Thor thought, grabbing the purple liquid and offering Clint a spoonful. Clint gulped it down before settling against Thor’s broad chest, and Thor wondered how a being could be so _tiny_. And at the same time he realized Clint wasn’t a fragile china thing he had thought. There was a solid weight in his arms – nothing that would bother him even if he kept holding Clint forever, but something solid that was resting in Thor’s arms. Thor could feel Clint’s labored breathing and heartbeat through his skin, the way his fever-heated flesh pressed against his chest. Tentatively, he walked over and sat on the couch, never taking his eyes off of the toddler falling to sleep in his arms.

 

Thor was still observing Clint when the baby woke, this time in considerably less pain than the last time. “Have you been staring at me this entire time?” Thor fidgeted, but grinned when Clint smiled up at him. Still exhausted from the illness, Thor noted, and he wondered if he should put Clint down in the crib again, but Clint merely sighed and snuggled back into Thor’s arm, eyes shutting again. “Later,” Clint said sleepily, “when I get better, you should throw me up and down. God, that’d be fun.”

 

Thor was alarmed, but before he could say anything, Clint had already slipped to sleep. He was still holding Clint when Tony and Pepper returned, Pepper looking pleasantly surprised and Tony looking smug. “He’s not so weak, is he?” Pepper came over to sit next to Thor, examining the sleeping infant. Clint did not wake when she placed her hand on his forehead. “His fever’s going down. Not yet fully healed, but going down.”

 

“Hey, Thor, buddy, catch.” Tony called from the kitchen, and Thor put his hand up just to catch the box of Pop Tarts from hitting him in the face. Not that it would have hurt even if it did. “When Clint gets better and he can keep foods down better, you two can share one.”

 

Pepper frowned. “I don’ think Pop Tarts is exactly the ideal food for a baby.”

 

“Give him a break. He’s been eating nothing but banana mush for the past 36 hours.” Tony came to sit next to Thor on the other side. “I’d usually swoop him back, but he looks pretty comfortable with you. And so fucking tiny.”


	5. Chapter 5

ix. The Avengers

 

Clint could have foreseen this coming. Really he could have. He doesn’t know how the hell it happens, because he’s always with the _Avengers_ , but of course he’d have to be stupid enough to wander away from Natasha while she’s engrossed in her ice cream. Tony has always told him all these modeling companies wanted Clint to model for them, and so Clint should have known better.

 

Sadly Clint always regrets what happens after it happens. But he is currently doing the best he can actually do during his predicament – cry his ass off. His kidnappers have no idea what to do, and it’s sort of funny that all these women in suits keep dangling toys in his face or shake rattles for him. They’re all redheads, to which Clint guesses is supposed to be _Pepper_ , but sadly for them he’s not actually a toddler.

 

So he wails, and thank goodness the baby is made of unending energy, because he’s pretty sure he’s been crying for the past hour. Because goddamn it, no, he is _not going to become the front page of a baby clothing magazine._

 

To make matters worse, even though his ear infection has healed, all the stress from the kidnapping must be getting to him, because his ear’s starting to throb again. So here he is, dressed in a pink – _pink!_ – rabbit hoodie with white jeans, propped in the middle of the table, crying his head off. He hopes his kidnappers are fucking annoyed at him, because he is fucking annoyed at them.

 

He just hopes he can continue crying until Tony and Natasha figure out where the fuck he is. Even though he figures he has some times after his tears dry up, because who wants a tear-blotched baby on the front cover of their magazine, right?

 

Thankfully, it isn’t too long until there’s a shattering of glass and shrieking. But he doesn’t actually stop crying until he hears Tony’s low voice through the speakers of his suit, very, very, very angry. “I’d apologize about the window.” Tony says, his voice cold with fury. “But you took something of ours that’s very dear to us, so I figure you’re still in debt.”

 

“God, look at you.” Steve says, picking Clint up. “Your face is all blotched.” Clint nods, hiccupping, hoping he’s playing the part of the frightened toddler. Steve is shaking, shaking violently in what Clint realizes is suppressed anger. Clint knows just how important Steve’s image is not just to Steve but to the rest of them, so he presses his palms on Steve’s star-spangled chest. Steve looks down at him and smiles briefly before sheathing a protective arm around Clint.

 

He’s holding Clint so Clint’s shielded from everything else, but Clint can still peek over his shoulders. Natasha looks deadlier than she’d ever been, and she currently has three women’s hairs in a grip. Thor has crashed his hammer through all the computers, Tony is blasting through all the walls, and Bruce.. Well, Bruce is the Hulk.

 

“Is it okay?” Clint wonders, looking around at the damage. “For them to be ripping through the office like this?’

 

“The reason it took us so long is because Fury stopped us. He dug us some dirt about the company because _no company_ who kidnaps two year olds can be completely clean. We figured they weren’t torturing you or anything, so we had a bit of time.” Steve rubs at Clint’s cheeks. “You okay?”

 

“Please, I’ve gone through worse. They did nothing. Except shake a rattle in front of my face for like half an hour.” Clint feels physically exhausted, but that isn’t anything the women did to him – that’s himself crying without break, so he leaves that unmentioned. He feels a little bad for them, anyway, but that’s what you get for messing with family.

 

Plus, he’s exhausted anyway, so he just lets his head drop onto Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

 

\--

 

The next time he opens his eyes, he’s lying down in his crib in Steve’s room. He yawns and rattles the crib a little, standing up, and Bruce is crouching over him. “Hey.” Bruce says, looking a little haggard as he always does when he transforms. Clint raises his arms and Bruce picks him up. “No more wandering off by yourself, you hear?” Bruce says, sternly, but Clint sees the wavering in his eyes and he presses a hand to Bruce’s cheek. Bruce chuckles.

 

“Sorry.” Clint apologizes, and he genuinely is. “Won’t happen again. Is Tash going to kill me?”

 

“I think she spent all of her murderous impulses on those women. She shaved them all bald.” Bruce winces. “I forget how brutal she can be.”

 

“She used an actual shaver?”

 

Bruce looks at Clint, who grins at him. “Well, yes, when you put it that way, she was having mercy on them by not using a dagger or a bullet or something else. The company went down. Tony revealed all their shady business, not to mention that they abducted a two year old. I don’t know how they thought they were going to get away with it.”

 

Clint shrugs. He’s still dressed in his rabbit hoodie, though someone has had the mercy to change him out of the tight jeans. He’s pretty sure it’s Steve, because this _is_ his room, and Steve is the last person he remembers being in the arms of.

 

Bruce carries him down to the living room, where he’s snatched off by Thor. “Clint!” He shouts. “Do not scare us so again!” And then he chucks Clint up into the air, and Clint laughs delightedly. It feels like _flying_. Thor catches him easily and tosses him upward again, again and again until he’s laughing almost hysterically. Whatever inhibitions Thor has had about touching Clint is all gone, and lately Clint spends a lot of time with Thor. They spend most of the time figuring out just how high Thor can throw Clint. (The answer is pretty fucking high. They had to stop after the second floor because Pepper yelled at both of them.)

 

The days pass by normally. Pepper dresses Clint in various animal shapes. Coulson sometimes babysits. Fury and Hill swear never to. Thor tests the limits of his strength. Tony acts like his dad. Bruce runs a test check on him every single day. Natasha thinks Clint is her stuffed animal. Steve gets too much enjoyment out of pulling the baby chick pajamas on him every day.

 

Clint enjoys it so much that the month flies by. Bruce thankfully predicts the transformation back down to the minute, so Clint stays rolled in blankets until he transforms back. Everyone looks a little sad, but for the most part they’re glad he’s back. Pepper hands him a hoodie – big enough to fit his adult form – that’s light blue with rabbit ears. “ _Seriously_?” He groans, and everyone laughs.

 

\--

 

Two weeks later, Clint is covered in alien goo. Again.

 

“It’s not going to turn me back into a two year old, is it?” He asks, after Steve has shoved him into the shower and Bruce has taken a sample. He really doesn’t want to become one again. Not that he hated it. He misses it, even, a little, but he likes his body. It’s not helpless. He only sometimes wears the bunny hoodie, and only because it’s comfortable. (Also because it makes everyone a little more relaxed after a bad day.)

 

Bruce smiles. “No. The compound is completely different from the one from last month. You know, though, Clint, you should consider wearing a suit that covers everything. Like Steve and Natasha. One day it’s going to be actually fatal.”

 

Clint snorts. “No way. I feel all stuffy if everything’s covered up.” He jumps off the medical bench. “All vitals good, and if I’m not turning into a two year old, I’m gonna go get some rest.” Bruce waves him away.

 

He burrows into his nest of a bed and sighs, hugging it. He’s _missed_ his bed, goddamn it. Sure, he’s had two weeks to get reacquainted with it, but he still appreciates it like nothing else. The crib. He shudders. It reminded him of jail cells. He pushes the thought out of his mind and curls around a pillow.

 

\--

 

Tony is watching Premium Rush with Natasha (he finds it only mildly disconcerting that she is actually obsessed with Joseph Gordon-Levitt) when the shrill scream rings through the air. Natasha is up immediately – he doesn’t miss how she’s managed to press pause – and she’s running, as is Tony. Thor and Steve come crashing through the kitchen, and Bruce comes wide-eyed from the stairs. “Clint.” Natasha says, and she rushes up the emergency staircase.

 

Clint is standing in front of the mirror in his room, which is, frankly, a good thing. He’s not a toddler again. And he’s alive. And then Tony sees it.

 

There’s a tail sticking out from the loose waistband of Clint’s sweatpants, and there are two cat ears jutting from the top of his head. Clint turns and he raises his eyes to the heavens. “Why the _fuck_ do these things only happen to me?!”


End file.
